


Opening

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics, team uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: The 2016 Olympics open in Brazil. England has someopinionsabout the Portuguese team's outfits for the opening ceremony.





	Opening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hoofae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoofae/gifts).



> Crossposted from my tumblr. This (including the notes) was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.
> 
> So an Englishwoman and a Portuguese woman both decided to be idiots and stay up _extremely_ late in their countries/shared timezone to watch the Olympic Games Opening Ceremony. This… arose out of one discussion because of the ceremony.  
> EngPort. Fairly short and sfw, as long as you can handle England using the word ‘arse.’ May be more Olympic shortfics coming from me soon depending on time and inspiration.

_“Jeans,”_ says England, blandly tuning out Northern Ireland’s complaining somewhere in the near background about how come, if these Olympics are about _sustainability_ , nobody is providing his grumbling _stomach_ with some sustenance. (Both Wales and Scotland are over in that direction. _They_ can deal with it.)

“They’re cool!” Portugal insists - as he has been insisting ever since he first showed up in the dratted clothing in question - and stretches out his legs in his seat next to England like he _isn’t_ aware the artfully faded fabric is clinging to every damn muscle in his frankly _obscene_ thighs.

England absolutely refuses to look at Portugal’s legs, _however_ obvious the twat is trying to make them, and so ends up resolutely glowering into the middle distance instead, cheeks a great deal redder than they ought to be. (Latvia, who accidentally ends up in the firing line of his glare, squeaks when he settles eyes on England, almost topples over Liechtenstein behind him, and scuttles off to hide behind Lithuania’s green-clad form.) It’s the Brazilian heat, England swears; he can feel the beads of sweat clinging to his hairline, and his nape feels damp. “Who the hell turns up at the _largest sporting event in the world_ \- also called, I will remind you, _the greatest show on earth_ \- in _jeans?!”_

“Everybody likes my jeans.” Portugal unknots the silk scarf around his neck, leaving it draped there like the goddamn _football_ scarf that he - like a great many of his Olympic team - has brought along as well. (They are _never_ going to give that a rest.) His arms stretch out over the backs of the seats either side of his own - over the back of _England’s_ seat - in a cheerfully lazy sprawl - “They have _patches,_ ” - and England is going to injure Portugal at some point in this Olympics, he really is, especially if the jeans and football scarf stay on.

“They hardly say _sporting professional_ ,” England says, pursing his lips and shifting his legs _away_ from where Portugal’s thighs are spreading inexorably out into British chair space. He hardly needs the denim chafing him, not in this sticky climate. (He has too many _‘dear_ friends,’ ‘ _responsible_ business colleagues,’ and _‘loving_ (former) members of his family’ around at sporting events for someone _not_ to rip the piss out of him for it.)

“That is what the _scarf_ is for, meu coração,” Portugal says quite blithely, and those legs of his just keep on _going_ like they’ve eagerly discovered the continental drift. “Well, sporting _champion_. I’d offer to let you borrow it for good luck, but I think you’d probably overheat and die.”

Pornographic Portuguese musculature or not, England turns and slits his eyes at his companion. “Give me the scarf. I’m going to _throttle_ you with it.”

Too much white teeth, jaguar grin, from time spent enthusing with his former colony, Brazil, lately, Portugal just grins at him. “ _Perverso_.” His hand, still curved around England’s back, plucks at the cloth of England’s team jacket. “This is cute, though. I want one.”

“O-oh, well -”

“You can keep the shorts though. They are not _quite_ as strange as France’s raincoat -” (Both of them neglect to turn around at the rather exasperated cry of _ce n’est pas un imperméable!_ from somewhere behind them. Portugal, because he has apparently already found a victim to torment, and England, because he knows for a fact that, judging from the very _sulking_ sort of silence now emanating from the direction Northern Ireland’s complaints had come from earlier, at least two of his siblings will be giving him some sort of angry and/or appealing look to come fix their mess.) “But -”

England holds up one hand between them, cutting Portugal short. “Do you have booze?”

Portugal blinks at him. “…Not with me, não.”

“Can you easily _obtain_ booze?”

After a brief pause, Portugal glances to the side - where their host for the next few weeks, Brazil, is standing in the middle of an excited, congratulatory crowd of their fellow Nations, his smile wide and tired and hopeful. (England remembers the feeling well. Also the loud conversation currently taking place between Hong Kong and Bermuda, about whether his jacket or her shorts are better tailored and a more fabulous red.) “…Yeee _eeeees_.”

“Alright then,” England sniffs, and lets his hand drop. “Go be a terrible father figure, and _then_ you may come back and resume being a pain in the arse.”

“You want me to _extort_ -”

“ _I_ ,” says England, settling back firmly into his seat and the arm wrapped around him, “want you to do absolutely nothing except think very long and very hard about: _a)_ why your only method of obtaining alcohol in this part of the world is apparently _extortion_ , and _b)_ how very _unsporting_ I am going to be if you come back here and harangue me again without a bribe decent enough to make me remember I occasionally fancy you - _despite_ wanting to murder you.”

Portugal just snorts at him - _“‘Occasionally,’”_ \- and leans in enough to kiss England’s cheek. “Até já.” His lips are warmer than usual - a sign the Brazilian weather is getting to him too, the show-off, even if he is parading about the place in scarves and jeans like the heat doesn’t affect him any more -, and when he finally puts his legs together and stands to saunter away…

Oh _God_.

_“Jeans,”_ England groans at no-one, and tips his head back on his seat so he can cover his eyes with one arm. All the excited Portuguese in the air might make him need to discover religion again.

The jeans cling to a lot more than Portugal’s _thighs._

**Author's Note:**

> Portugal’s team outfits for the opening ceremony are in [this link](https://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/olympics/36993100). The football scarves are, of course, a reference to the Euro 2016 results. The GB opening jackets can be [best seen here](https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2016/aug/05/team-gb-opening-ceremony-outfits-subtly-british-stella-mccartney-rio).


End file.
